


The Baisodrome Theory

by Niitza



Series: Olympics AUs [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 2016 Summer Olympics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Alternate Universe - Sports, Crack, Crush at First Sight, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, The Olympic Village
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 20:44:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13666950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niitza/pseuds/Niitza
Summary: Rumors abound about the Olympic Village. Some say it's like a college campus, only worse because it's abroad and almost everyone is of legal age. Some say it should be re-baptized Fuck City. Some say it's unsanitary and not up to security standards and refuse to move in (we're looking at you, Australia).Bucky doesn't care. Unlike some people (read: Clint), he's not here to relive his not-so-long-lost youth or to entertain his dick. He's here for the sport. He's here for his teammates, for his family and for the guys back home. He's here to enjoy a once-in-a-lifetime experience: the Summer Olympics in Rio de Janeiro. Nothing more.Too bad life rarely gives you what you want—or actually expect.-[This fic is a standalone, you do not need to have readIce Sharpto understand it.]





	The Baisodrome Theory

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:**
> 
> \- I have never gone to any Olympic games nor have I ever visited an Olympic Village, let alone Rio's. As a consequence, I have no claims as to the accuracy of the depiction.
> 
> \- However I did spend way too much time on the Olympics website and did strive to be accurate regarding the schedule and results of that game.
> 
> Many thanks to [layersofsilence](https://layersofsilences.tumblr.com/) for beta-work and encouragements (i.e. I blame you for this, again) <3

 

* * *

 

Baisodrome: [French n., from _baiser_ (to fuck) + - _drome_ (racecourse, see: hippodrome, velodrome)] _slang_. a place designed for sexual congress.

 

 

**3rd of August - Day -2**

* * *

 

Fifteen minutes into the bus trip from Rio's airport to the Olympic Village and Bucky was wondering why he'd agreed to sit with the archery team instead of his own.

" _Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?_ " his seat neighbor, Clint Barton, said—or tried to say: his French was so mangled it might as well have been Martian.

" _Non_ ," Bucky grunted, watching the landscape through the window. Streets of one and two-story buildings flew by, interspersed with copses of trees and overgrown vacant lots, while on the horizon dark green mountains rose and sank softly. It would've been a nice view, had he slept better the night before—and had Clint not been slapping his shoulder.

"Come on, man," he said, "help me with this."

Bucky would staunchly deny that he slapped back. "Here's some help," he growled, " _va te faire foutre_."

Clint brightened. "Hey, I know that one! I think…" And he dived back nose first into his conversation guide.

Bucky gave him a look, half baffled, half baleful. "Dude, why do you even bother?"

"French's the Official Olympic Language." He paused. "Isn't it?"

"English is too," Bucky said. "If you wanted to do the culturally sensitive thing here you should be learning _Portuguese_."

"Ah, but Portuguese isn't the language of love," Clint said with a winning smile, bringing a hand to his chest.

Bucky was now definitely leaning towards the baffled half of his current emotional scale. "And it matters how?"

"Well," Clint said, his smile turning wicked, and Bucky realized he really shouldn't have asked, "you know what they say about the Olympic Village." He wiggled his eyebrows. "That's a theory I'm more than willing to test."

And back on the baleful side of the scale. Bucky rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me you believe that shit."

"Why not? Hundreds—no, _thousands_ of young and beautiful people, all healthy and athletic, all stuck in close quarters while far away from home, with adrenaline running high…" Clint made a helpless gesture. "It makes total sense!"

"Oh, does it?" Bucky snarked.

"Yup. And if I'm to enjoy it fully, then I need all the help I can get—because it sure as hell isn't my discipline that'll bring everyone to the yard."

"See, I'd agree with you here," Bucky said, "but I actually do believe that everyone's just gonna be too preoccupied with other, more _important_ matters."

It was Clint's turn to roll his eyes. "Oh, shut up," he said. "Who are you, even? I know Bucky Barnes, he's a fun guy. Or he used to be."

"Exactly," Bucky retorted, "he _used_ to be. He grew up—unlike _some_ people."

"Oh yeah? Well, let me suggest another explanation: you just know that with _your_ discipline, you've got even less chance of getting lucky than I do."

"Oh. Oh no," Bucky said, entirely deadpan, "you got me. Saw right through me. Here I am, in Brazil, about to take part in the most highly-anticipated sport event in the last four years, clearly I have failed at life. I mean, Olympics what? I'm just lonely and bitter and sad. How will I survive such despair. What ever will I do."

"Stop it," Clint said, trying and failing not to laugh.

"Dude, I'm just here for the sport," Bucky added. "There'll be plenty of people to fuck back home if I want to, but this? Here and now? This is a once in a lifetime experience. So I don't know about you, but what _I'm_ gonna focus on is my part of the competition. I'm here to do my thing, to be there for my teammates, I'm here to make the guys back home proud and to _hopefully_ qualify for the finals." Hopefully maybe even get a medal. "That's all."

Clint snorted. "Sure," he said, patting him on the shoulder. Bucky slapped him again. "You keep telling yourself that."

 

-

 

Among the enormous pile of bullshit Clint had spewed, there was one (small, very small) element of truth Bucky couldn't and wouldn't deny: his discipline was no crowd-puller.

It couldn't be. To an outside observer, nothing visibly happened—even worse than in archery. It was just some guy or gal lying or standing around, holding a gun and staring a target down for the longest time, until after way too long, for no apparent reason, they pulled the trigger—a movement so minute one could easily miss it. And before it could even register, the bullet had already flown and met its aim. There was a hole in the target, and no way for the viewer to know why exactly it was off-center or dead-on.

That was shooting for you: everything happened on the inside. The entirety of it narrowed down to one very tenuous line between the shooter's eye, his scope and his target, with nothing but impalpable, unpredictable air in between. Bucky loved it, of course; loved the patience it required, the precision, how simple it was in appearance, how complex in reality. But even though he'd throw down any day with any asshole claiming that it wasn't a real sport, he could understand why most people—why people on the outside—would simply find it… underwhelming. Not to mention boring.

Hell, he was pretty sure most TV chains didn't even bother to pay for the rights to broadcast it. Not that he blamed them. You had to be sure your investments would pay off, after all.

 

-

 

He'd been in his room for less than five minutes when he received a couple texts from Clint.

The first one was a picture, showing a bunch of what were unmistakably condom packets.

The second was a text message: _Lookit that!!! condoms in the welcome package!!!! i was SO right!!!!!!!_

Again, he rolled his eyes.

 

 

**5th of August - Day 0**

* * *

 

Fortunately, Clint hadn't thrown all his sporting ambitions out the window in favor of his newfound ambitions for his dick. He'd spent the entirety of day 0 in preliminary rounds and would have an early start in the morning for the archery team event, and so agreed that it would be more reasonable for him not to take part in  the opening ceremony.

Unfortunately, ensuring that he was well-rested so he wouldn't let his team down didn't seem to be his top priority.

"I need my beauty sleep," he'd said, "and a shiny medal will _totally_ increase my chances of scoring, won't it?"

By then Bucky had been regretting dropping by Clint's room on the way down to one of the many shuttle buses that were taking athletes to the Maracanã stadium. He'd regretted it even more when Clint had asked him if he could scope out the other athletes for him—American or otherwise, he wasn't picky.

"I'm all for international cooperation, here," he'd said.

"Yeah, next thing I know you'll be singing the Internationale," Bucky had retorted, before crossing his arms and stating that he would not, in fact, check anyone out for him.

And he _wasn't_. It was just that, well: something they never told you when you prepared for the Olympics or even put on the costume for the opening ceremony was that the Parade of Nations? Lasted _for-fucking-ever_. You had to wait an eternity before your country was announced, and then to wait _another_ eternity for all the other teams to parade past. So even though Bucky's discipline was 50% about patience, he was…bored. There were only so many times one could look around the stadium and marvel at the fact that your were in Rio de fucking Janeiro for the fucking Olympics—that you'd actually made it. And there were only so many times you could shudder in horror at the sight of what some countries had picked as their official team uniform.

Not that the US team had fared much better. The skinny jeans would've been okay if they hadn't been white, which wasn't flattering on anyone. The blazer was a boring blue and felt stiff and ill-fitting despite being bespoke. But that was nothing on the striped shirt—Bucky'd heard some complaining it looked like the Russian flag—or, God forbid, the boat shoes. Which pinched.

In short, he needed a distraction. And so of course he was looking around, and maybe possibly trying to catch sight of some renowned athletes. He'd already done some internal screaming over sharing a plane with _Kim Rhode_ , the whole shooting team having traveled to Brazil together; and he'd already caught sight of Michael Phelps, who was difficult to miss since he was the US flag bearer. Apart from them, Bucky was acutely aware of the entirety of the basketball team looming behind him, having condescended to leave the luxury cruise boat they were staying in to join the realm of mortal men. And were those the Williams sisters he was seeing out of the corner of his eye?

He was craning his head to better see the delegation for Jamaica—he wanted to try and catch sight of Usain Bolt, so sue him—when he heard it: a burst of laughter, light and clear as a bell, so happy that Bucky couldn't help but throw a glance over his shoulder to see where it originated from and—

And.

And as it turned out, somehow some people _could_ make their horrid team uniform work. And make it work _superbly_.

 

-

 

From then on and in spite of himself, Bucky found his attention split. Again and again he'd glance at the man—for he was a man indeed, tall and blond and built, accompanied by another man who was just as built and blond and tall, with longer hair and a neatly trimmed beard, yet didn't catch Bucky's eye in the same way at all.

It was like part of him needed to make sure that he hadn't dreamed the guy up.

He kept wondering what discipline he was in, too. Gymnastics, maybe? That would explain the shoulders and the narrow waist and the…everything, actually. Plus it'd add some bendiness as a bonus—which Bucky actually shouldn't be thinking about right now, given that _unlike some people_ he wasn't here to ogle other athletes but to focus on the sport and enjoy the whole incredible Olympic experience.

He ignored the thought that, as Clint would've said, the former did not preclude the latter at all; if possible, Clint would've added, it might even be a _prerequisite_.

 

-

 

He was careful not to end up on the same bus at The Blond on the way back. It would've come too close to caving in and admitting that Clint, while not being right, wasn't 100% wrong either.

 

 

**8th of August - Day 3**

* * *

 

On the morning of his first event, Bucky woke up to so many messages of encouragement that it felt like half the AMU as well as every single soldier he'd ever trained had sent something—and that was without counting the Barnes clan. He read some of them on the bus to the National Shooting Center in Deodoro, not quite able to summon a smile. Such support was heartwarming, sure, but it was also a bit intimidating. Add to that the fact that Clint had carried the archery team all the way to a silver medal on day 1 while one of Bucky's female counterparts—a first timer like him—had scored the gold in the women's 10m air rifle and…

He wanted to do well, is all.

He didn't. Or at least, he didn't do as well as he would've wished. He placed 34th out of 50, nowhere near enough to qualify. And while his performance was far from the worst he'd ever done, he couldn't help but be a bit disappointed in himself.

Still, he stayed until the finals—it remained a close contest between the Italian and one of the Ukrainian contestants until the end—and to see the podium. He clapped heartily: they'd certainly deserved it.

 

-

 

Once back at the Village, he wished for nothing more than to go lie down in a quiet room for a little while. His roommate, a kid who'd taken part in the same event and placed 21st, veered off to go call his aunt and so Bucky found himself walking alone to the elevators.

On the way there, he saw The Blond. The man was standing near the doors leading to the condo's swimming pool, nose in his phone, a sports bag slung over his shoulders. He seemed to be waiting for someone.

Bucky forced himself to look away before he could be caught watching, and did _not_ glance back as he rounded the corner.

 

-

 

Maybe The Blond was one of the swimmers. His ridiculous shoulders to waist ratio—even more obvious now that he was out of that godawful blazer—certainly made it seem so.

 

 

**12th of August - Day 7**

* * *

 

Over the next few days Bucky got the impression that he was seeing The Blond everywhere. He was acutely aware of his presence whenever they were in the same room, could pick him out of a crowd even though with Europe, North America and Oceania represented, the Village was rife with tall, blond and built men.

It had been a long time since he'd felt that way, since he'd had that kind of…crush. Because that's definitely what it was. Bucky recognized the signs: the unprovoked hyperawareness, the small thrill zinging down his spine whenever he caught sight of the guy, the giddy joy he'd carry around for entire minutes after even the shortest of glimpses.

The utter inability to walk up to him and strike up a conversation.

But that last part was okay: Bucky wasn't here to flirt. He didn't mind the pick-me-up his random sightings of The Blond had become, though. Like that morning, when his resolution to get up early was rewarded the second he reached the Main Dining Hall. The Blond was there, sitting at a table with the man he'd been with at the opening ceremony—probably a teammate, then—and a third blonde, a young woman who matched them in both height and looks. They were beautiful together, like they'd walked right out of a magazine, like they were minutes away from doing a beach photoshoot for some designer's summer collection.

Bucky, who hadn't bothered washing his hair that morning, nearly felt inadequate—but before the feeling could settle, he heard one of his teammates call him. He was only too happy for the distraction, and walked away.

 

-

 

 _Beach volleyball_ , he thought later, on the bus to the National Shooting Center. He'd gotten a couple hours training in, and was now riding over to see the finals for the 50m rifle prone at 11 a.m.

That was a nice picture.

 

-

 

Another picture which was just as nice and at the same time not nice at all was Clint, winning the bronze in the individual archery event. Bucky returned right on time from his afternoon training session to catch it on TV.

That was the problem, when you had a friend like Clint as an athlete: he always acted like he didn't care about his performances, and as a result he made everything he achieved look so easy—when it really wasn't.

 

 

**14th of August - Day 9**

* * *

 

Bucky failed to qualify for the finals of his second—and last—event.

He placed better than during the first though. And yeah, sure, he hadn't come to Rio with (overly) high hopes, but still: he was a bit bummed. Enough so that, on the way back at the end of the day, he admitted to himself that it might be nice to see The Blond. As a consolation.

Which of course meant that said Blond was nowhere to be seen.

 

-

 

Maybe his sport was one of the _actually_ boring ones, like golf.

 

-

 

 _Fuck this_ , Bucky thought while under the shower. His part of the competition was over and done with: now he could enjoy the city and the sunny weather, the various events and the Village amenities without any of the pressure. It was great. It was _going_ to be great.

In that second, the shower curtain collapsed right onto his head.

 

-

 

That was a low point.

And yet: being attacked by a curtain was better than ending up stuck in the elevator—as some of his fellow athletes had been, apparently.

 

 

**15th of August - Day 10**

* * *

 

Given that the competition was over for them both, Clint now had no qualms about dragging Bucky to go see the quarterfinals in women's lightweight boxing. Apparently, he knew the American contestant, who'd made it this far and whom he wanted to cheer on.

Bucky followed without much protest. He was all in favor of such solidarity between athletes. What he was less supportive of was Clint's not-so-underhanded secondary purpose, which was to show himself off alongside his two medals. Ever since the archery events had ended, he'd been wearing them around _all the time_ , with high hopes that it'd help along his testing of that bullshit theory he had about the Olympic Village and its mores. Bucky didn't have the heart to tell him that, over a week into the games, the sight of a medal was becoming, well, _ordinary_ —thus reducing the appeal it might've granted its bearer.

Or rather, he didn't have the heart _yet_. If Clint went on the way he was, Bucky's scruples wouldn't last for much longer.

"I told you people would've better things to do," he retorted to Clint's recounting of the last time he'd struck out, the woman he'd tried to chat up having excused herself from the conversation to go train without having noticed she was being hit on. "Did you even ask her what sport she was in? Maybe she had qualifications coming up, if not finals."

"Um," Clint said, which was pretty telling.

Bucky refrained from rolling his eyes.

Clint somehow took in as an encouragement. "So what you mean is, I should focus on people who're already done, like us."

"If you must," Bucky groused—before giving Clint a narrow-eyed glance. "You stay away from Ginny."

"Of course I will." Clint sounded almost offended. "She's a kid!"

" _And_ from Corey," Bucky added.

"Dude, you _don't_ need to tell me your teammates are off limits. I know Kim would shoot me in the dick if I tried anything, and that'd kind of defeat the purpose."

"Might not be _such_ a bad thing," Bucky mumbled.

Fortunately the conversation ended here, since they'd reached the Riocentro and now needed to focus not to get lost and to reach the right pavilion on time. Less fortunately, they found said pavilion entirely packed. It shouldn't have come as a surprise: the afternoon was drawing towards its end, which meant that a lot of people were done with their activities for the day.

Still, who would've thought that so many of them would rush to see women punch each other. Especially when they could've gone to lounge on a beach instead to (allegedly) watch some beach volleyball or sailing.

"I told you we should've walked over earlier," Bucky said, which Clint waved off carelessly.

In the end, they agreed to split up. Bucky wasn't much more successful finding a place to sit on his own, though. He was starting to worry that he would either have to remain standing or leave, when he caught sight of a free chair, right beside…The Blond.

For a second he stared. True, the pavilion was nowhere near being the largest facility in the Olympic Park, but still: such coincidences should not be allowed.

Then he realized that a lot of people were still milling around and that the seat might end up taken any second. He hurried over.

He had to call over the heads of three people—feeling pretty ridiculous all the while—to catch The Blond's attention and ask if the seat next to him was taken. By some miracle, it wasn't—Bucky had almost expected for him to be keeping it free for his other tall, blond and built teammate.

"Thanks," he said with a smile as he sat down.

"You're welcome," The Blond replied, smiling back—and okay, it wasn't the first time Bucky was seeing that expression on his face, but it was definitely ~~better~~ worse from up close. "Members of the same team have to stick together, don't they?"

Bucky almost asked how he knew, before remembering that he was dressed head to toe in American-flag-themed workout gear. As was The Blond—with the difference that, on him, even their star-spangled tracksuit looked _good_.

Bucky swallowed down his inner distress and held out a hand. "James Barnes."

The Blond took it. "Steve Rogers." His palm was warm and calloused, his fingers long, exerting just the right pressure as they wrapped around Bucky's.

When he let go, Bucky felt bereft.

"What sport are you in?" he managed to ask.

"Oh, uh." The Blond—Steve—looked down, his smile turning almost bashful. "Discus throw. Not the most thrilling, I know."

"I think I got you beat there," Bucky said, relaxing a bit. At Steve's quizzical glance, he added: "Rifle shooting."

Steve was polite enough not to agree out loud that Bucky had a point. "I have to admit I haven't followed it," he said instead. "Are you already done or…?"

"I am," Bucky replied. "I didn't qualify."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Bucky shrugged. "It's already amazing that I made it this far," he said, and even if he hadn't meant it, the grin Steve gave him just then would've convinced him he did.

"What about you?"

"All done," Steve said. "The finals were the day before yesterday."

"And how did it go?"

"Well, Germany got the bronze, Poland the silver." His gaze was drawn down to the ring, where the judges had started to come in and get settled. The event would be beginning soon.

"And the gold?" Bucky asked.

Steve glanced back at him. "What?"

"Who won the gold in discus throw?"

"Oh, I did," Steve replied, already looking away, like it was _no big deal_.

"You don't have your medal with you," Bucky said faintly.

Steve gave a brief, awkward smile. "Well, it'd feel kind of ostentatious, wouldn't it? Especially for a win that owes more to luck and to the others not doing as well as I did than to my own merit."

Bucky blinked at him, confused, because that was exactly the point, wasn't it? Like in all competitions the Olympic results were fickle: a glimpse captured and immortalized like an insect in amber. Winning a medal didn't mark you as the best athlete in your discipline forever and ever. It simply meant that at a given moment and place, under a very specific set of circumstances, you _had been_ the best the world had to offer. A day, a minute later, it would've been different—but that didn't matter. It didn't change the fact that, for a second, you'd been better than everyone else. The only difference was that this time, unlike in most other competitions—especially in their sports—, a large part of the world knew it too.

Bucky wasn't sure how to put that into words, though; the mere thought of trying to felt like too much—too intense, too intimate. He didn't want to scare Steve off, or to make him regret letting a weirdo sit beside him for the next hour.

Fortunately, the quarterfinals were starting. Bucky let himself be distracted by it; he let the moment pass.

 

-

 

Steve clapped enthusiastically when the American contestant stepped into the hall. He even shouted: "Go, Nat!"

Bucky stared. "You know her?"

"Yeah," Steve replied. "She's my neighbor, actually."

"You're shitting me."

Steve grinned. "Nope. She plant-sits for me, I cat-sit for her."

"Small world," Bucky said. "My friend knows her too. He's here somewhere, that's how I ended up here."

"Well, I'm glad you did," Steve said—but before Bucky's heart could jump too high he added, "She deserves all the support she can get and more." Then he shushed both himself and Bucky, because Natasha Romanov and her opponent had entered the ring, and he clearly didn't want to miss a second of it.

Bucky wasn't disappointed. He _wasn't_.

 

-

 

Bucky didn't know the first thing about boxing so he had little to no idea what was going on, or on what basis the judges were awarding points.

Which meant that, while he understood that the fight was a close one—Romanov winning the 1st and 4th round, her Russian adversary the 2nd and 3rd—he didn't really get why the judges awarded the win to the latter after their deliberation.

Romanov's coach—a huge, dangerous looking guy with a freaking eyepatch—didn't seem to get it either. In fact, he seemed pretty pissed.

Bucky chose to find that gratifying instead of scary: clearly, he had good instincts.

 

-

 

They stayed for the second match, Bucky not quite daring to hope that Steve was partly staying because he enjoyed the company.

This time at least, it was a lot clearer who of the two contestants had the upper hand. But the second it was over, Clint started bombarding his phone with all possible variations of _Dude, where r u???_ So Bucky said, "I have to go find my friend."

His reluctance had to be obvious, but either Steve didn't notice it or he didn't care much. "Okay," he said, already up and ready to go, "I guess I'll see you around then."

And he left, before Bucky could even start to gather the courage to maybe suggest he walk back with them to the Village.

Once again, he was _not_ disappointed.

 

-

 

He did, however, meet Natasha Romanov: she joined them for dinner a short hour later, not at the Dining Hall but at the McDonald's—because, as Clint said, they deserved to splurge.

They weren't the only ones with the same idea, though. The queue was obscenely long. They refused to be intimidated, but soon Clint shot off like one of his arrows to go find them a table, leaving absolutely no instruction as to what they should order for him. But then, being who he was, he probably would be happy with whatever, as long as it wasn't a salad.

It had the unpleasant side effect of leaving Bucky alone with Natasha—who wasn't much better than him at talking to strangers, he guessed after five minutes spent in awkward silence. Well, awkward for him. Natasha didn't seem to mind.

Maybe she was going over her match, the mistakes she'd made. If so, Bucky probably shouldn't leave her alone with her thoughts.

"I've met your neighbor," he said. "Steve Rogers?"

Somehow, it was the first topic of conversation that had come to mind. Bucky berated himself—but what was done was done.

"Did you, now?" Natasha asked, eyebrows rising faintly.

Bucky nodded—and didn't know what else to say.

Natasha looked at him for a few seconds, almost gauging. Her lips curved into the slightest of smiles. "Did you know he won the gold medal in his discipline?"

"Yeah, discus throw. He told me." Bucky hesitated for a second, then admitted, "I would've liked to see that."

Natasha's expression did not change, her smile didn't widen, and yet Bucky suddenly felt like it had. Like she _knew_.

He did not blush. He was a staff sergeant in the U. S. Army. He _would not_ blush.

"He broke the world record, too, while he was at it," Natasha added.

"He did?"

Bucky had known the guy's display of humility had been pure bullshit.

He'd also utterly failed at sounding nonchalant or uninterested.

He was _so_ screwed.

 

 

**16th of August - Day 11**

* * *

 

Bucky had had vague plans to step outside the Olympic Village and Park for once to go see some of Rio itself.

Instead he might or might not have pulled up several hours long replays on his phone just to try and catch a certain Blond throwing a glorified frisbee during his preliminaries and finals.

What could he say: it _was_ a remarkable performance.

 

 

**17th of August - Day 12**

* * *

 

The next day, he went back to the Riocentro to see the semifinals in women's lightweight boxing. His interest had been piqued, see, and now he wanted to know the outcome.

This nifty excuse lasted until he heard someone call his name, eagerly turned around and saw Steve jogging closer.

"Hi," he said. "You here to see the match?"

Bucky nodded. "Kind of want to know who wins," he said, and before he knew it they'd fallen into step with each other to enter the pavilion side by side.

"Same here. I'm rooting for the Russian."

"Really?" Bucky said, throwing him a surprised glance. "I thought you'd want her to go down for eliminating your friend."

Steve smirked. "On the contrary. I'll only accept Nat's defeat if her adversary is meant to become the Olympic champion."

Bucky couldn't help but chuckle.

Unfortunately for Steve, his wishes were not to be fulfilled: mere seconds before the end of the first round, Ms. Belyakova had to tap out, then forfeit. She'd dislocated her left elbow.

"Well," Bucky said slowly, not wanting to sound callous, "that was underwhelming."

Steve winced. "Yeah. I hope she'll be okay."

It had deprived them of a reason to stay sitting side by side, though. But this time, Bucky managed to man up and ask Steve if he wanted to go get coffee, or something.

He didn't quite believe it when Steve said yes.

 

-

 

They walked back to the Village, bought drinks at the Dining Hall, then went back out in search of a couple deckchairs to lounge on in the sun. Rio was in the southern hemisphere, so it was technically winter, but the weather had been resolutely sunny and warm since the beginning of the games. Even now, the temperatures was hovering around 80°F, and were only just starting to grow milder as the sun began its descent towards evening.

Bucky and Steve talked the whole way, starting with what they'd been doing that day. Steve, Bucky learned, had spent the morning at the Olympic stadium to cheer for one of his teammates, who was in the preliminaries for the hammer throw. He'd qualified, and would move on to the finals in two days.

"I'm not surprised," Steve said, "but I still found it very stressful to watch. I don't know, lots of people told me—as I was preparing for the games, they told me it'd feel great, like a holiday of sorts. But in between the costs of travel and the traveling itself and the apprehension…" He shrugged.

"Sounds like a holiday to me," Bucky said with a smirk.

Steve gave him a look. "You must not have had many nice holidays in the past."

"I don't get many holidays to start with," Bucky retorted, then explained, "I'm a staff sergeant. _Anything_ feels like a holiday compared to that."

"You're military?" Steve said, eyebrows rising like he hadn't expected that.

"Yup. Army Marksmanship Unit—most of the shooters who make it to the Olympics come from there, actually."

"Huh," Steve said, and took a sip of his coffee. "I almost went to West Point."

Now it was Bucky's turn to be surprised. "You did?"

Steve nodded. "As a career starter, it does come with good benefits. And I filled all the requirements."

"But?" Bucky prompted.

"My mom talked me out of it," Steve said.

"Oh, I know what that's like. Mine was so thrilled when I transferred to the AMU. No more active combat and all."

And thus their conversation veered off into the much safer topic of family, then friends. As it turned out, what Steve might lack in anecdotes about the former—his family was a small one, just him and his mom—he more than made up for with stories about the latter.

 

-

 

The rest of the afternoon flew by almost unnoticed. By the time the sun had set, Bucky was still nowhere near getting bored. Steve felt the same, it seemed: when his phone beeped, he looked apologetic, almost regretful. But he'd promised to meet his teammates for dinner and so he had to leave.

Part of Bucky wished he'd say to hell with his plans and stay. But another more civilized part appreciated a man keeping his promises, even one as simple as a team meet-up. He even pretended that that more decent half was winning and wished Steve a nice evening, sending him off with a casual wave and a smile.

He'd enjoyed his company for a whole afternoon, after all. He could share.

 

-

 

It wasn't until he was back in his room that he realized that, preoccupied as he'd been to not seem clingy, he'd entirely forgotten to ask Steve for his number.

Or to suggest a time and place for them to meet again.

…

 _Fuck_.

 

 

**19th of August - Day 14**

* * *

 

Of course, now that Bucky was actively looking for Steve in the crowd, Steve was suddenly nowhere to be seen.

It was okay, though. Steve had come back for the semifinals in boxing, surely he'd do the same for the final bout. Bucky would find him there, and this time he wouldn't be stupid and he would—

He would what, actually? What did he think this was? Where did he think it was going? The games were already drawing to a close, so really, what did he expect?

He had no idea.

It might be a good idea to figure it out, though.

 

-

 

Or not.

Or maybe whether he did or not wouldn't matter at all.

He went to the boxing final, but Steve never showed.

 

-

 

James B. Barnes, however, wasn't one to give up so easily.

Still, he wasn't quite ready to go knock on all the doors in their 17 floors condo in the hopes of finding Steve on the other side of one.

Nor was he willing to go full stalker and creep around the Dining Hall until Steve walked in.

But apart from that, he wasn't drowning in ideas.

He couldn't even ask Steve's teammates for help: they too seemed to have dropped off the map entirely.

 

-

 

It took him way too long to connect the dots and remember that not all athletics events were over and done with.

When he did, he dived for his phone so abruptly that his roommate jumped up with a cry.

 

-

 

And so he found himself at the Olympic stadium shortly after 8 p.m., half wondering what the _hell_ he was doing. Sure, he liked Steve, but this was ridiculous. Not to mention stupid and useless: he might be certain that Steve was here somewhere, but the stadium was huge and the spectators countless. Looking for him would be like trying to find a needle in a hay stack: entirely futile.

So really, what the fuck?

He decided to blame Clint. It always felt like a safe bet.

Except, was that his name someone was calling?

…

It _was_ —albeit not a voice he recognized.

Bucky looked around and finally caught sight of a young woman hurrying towards him. She was tall and blond and vaguely familiar, even though he was pretty sure he'd never ever spoken to her before.

"You're James, right?" she asked once she'd reached him, even though the answer should've been obvious, given how he'd reacted to that name. "From the shooting team?"

Two things happened at once. One, Bucky finally placed her, as one of the people he'd seen Steve eat breakfast with once or twice. Two, he realized that Steve had to have told her about him, had to have shown her pictures, maybe even some competition footage, for her to not only know his name and discipline, but also what he looked like.

"That's me," he said, unsure how to react. "And you are…?"

"Sharon Carter." She held out a hand for him to shake. "I'm on the athletics team with Steve. Did you want to see how we were doing?"

"Uh yeah, yes, that's exactly it," Bucky said. "Steve told me about the…hammer throw. Got me curious."

It was only 50% a lie. He _was_ curious to see how that whole crazy concept worked in reality.

"Great!" Sharon said. "Want to join us? The hammer throw isn't until later, but the pole vault's about to begin. Two of us qualified, and we've got great seats to cheer them on."

Bucky wasn't about to look a miraculous gift horse in the mouth. "Sure," he said, and followed.

 

-

 

"What discipline are you in, by the way?" Bucky asked as they walked.

"Javelin throw."

"Nice. Did you do well?"

"Eh, I botched it. Came this close to qualifying but…" A shrug. "But at least I didn't kill or maim anyone, so that's a win."

Bucky stared at her in faint horror. "That happens?"

Sharon winced. "More than we're comfortable with, actually."

Before he could ask her to explain, she abruptly turned to go down some stairs, heading right for the bottom section of the bleachers which was covered in red, white and blue sports uniforms. It looked like half the US athletics team was here—but maybe Bucky only got that impression because they were so numerous compared to his own team. As it was, there were so many of them that finding them wouldn't actually have been an issue. And by finding them Bucky would've found Steve: he was sitting right there, head turning in their direction at Sharon's call, expression blooming into a smile when he caught sight of Bucky.

He was right in the middle of the pack, too. Yet before Bucky could figure out why or how he was already being shoved into a seat right beside him.

"Hey there," Steve said, still smiling—and surely Bucky wasn't imagining things, surely all this _could_ be construed as _signs_ , couldn't it?

"Hey yourself," he replied. And then, because he was an idiot, he added, "I didn't see you at the boxing finals this morning."

Steve looked rueful. "Yeah, sorry about that—" Like they'd actually agreed to meet there, which they very much hadn't. "—I couldn't go. I was at the Aquatic Center for the preliminaries in platform diving."

Bucky would've marveled at his wide range of sporting interest if he wasn't stuck wondering what was so interesting about platform diving that Steve would prefer its preliminaries over a final in boxing.

"So, who won?" Steve asked.

"I don't remember her name," Bucky replied sheepishly. "The French one."

"Good for her."

They didn't have time to say much more: Steve's teammates erupted into cheers. The pole vault finals were starting.

 

-

 

Steve's teammates did remarkably well. They won not one, but two silver medals: one in women's pole vault, one in men's hammer-throw—scored by a man Bucky recognized as Tall, Blond And Built Number Two. He made it look easy, too.

If not for Sharon's presence, Bucky would've started to get a complex; it was like everyone was effortlessly obtaining medals—except him.

Still, even though this wasn't the athletics team's first successes, they were all pretty thrilled. The medals ceremonies had come and gone and their joy and giddiness hadn't abated in the slightest, which was why Bucky wasn't surprised when he started hearing talks of going out for celebrations.

Then Steve turned to him, and asked if he wanted to come, and Bucky…hesitated. He'd been watching them banter as they discussed where they should go, and already he knew that, were he to join them, he would end up being left out. Not through any ill will on their part: they were simply a team, they knew each other, and Bucky was an outsider. He knew Steve would try to counter that, of course. But that would mean Bucky hogging his attention all evening—and that wouldn't be right. No matter how tempting it was.

So he pleaded tiredness, the wish to turn in early. And he wasn't mistaken: Steve looked disappointed, like he hadn't only been asking out of politeness, like he really wanted Bucky here. It was confirmed when he said, "I'm going to see the finals in platform diving tomorrow at 11 a.m. Wanna come?"

He definitely looked hopeful. Bucky was definitely not imagining things. So he said, "Okay."

He still had no idea what was so interesting about diving, but okay.

 

 

**20th of August - Day 15**

* * *

 

What was so interesting about diving?

It was guy upon perfectly sculpted guy, all looking like they'd been carved out of marble, all manscaped to within an inch of their lives, all in such tiny speedos that they might as well not have been there at all.

It was one guy in particular, one Sam Wilson, who jumped off the platform like he was taking flight, like gravity was nothing but a choice he gracefully agreed to consider but discarded in the end, like he had all the time in the world to flawlessly twirl and pirouette before entering the water without a single splash. It was a man with a beautiful body and an even more beautiful smile, made perfect by the small gap between his teeth; a man Steve barreled towards the second he could, the second the results were announced; a man who'd just won a bronze medal and whom Steve hugged like this was the happiest day of their lives, like he didn't care that the man was 95% naked, like he was already intimately acquainted with that body and didn't care who saw.

It was Bucky crashing back down to earth and belly flopping very painfully while he was at it.

He still managed to shake the man's hand and utter his own congratulations—he'd followed Steve down, it would've been incorrect, un-sportsmanlike, not to. The guy didn't seem to notice how stiff the words were. He was obviously soaring too high through the clouds to care. And why wouldn't he be?

Once again, there were talks of celebrations. Bucky deftly extracted himself, claiming that he had agreed to meet a friend for lunch, and ducked out when no one was looking.

He didn't think Steve noticed.

 

-

 

It was all Clint's fault anyway. Putting stupid ideas into Bucky's brain.

Steve had just been _friendly_ , like he seemed to be with everyone he crossed paths with.

This wasn't some romantic comedy, this was real life, and in real life no one actually went and _met someone_ at the fucking Olympics. Bucky scoffed at himself for believing otherwise even for a second.

He should've known better.

 

 

**21st of August - Day 16**

* * *

 

So it was actually a good thing that the Olympics were already at an end. Soon Bucky would be back home, and his life would return to normal. It was already starting to: most of his things were packed up in preparation for their flight the following day, and he was getting ready for the closing ceremony. Clint had dropped by to go down with him and was now lounging on his bed, complaining: a familiar sight if there was one.

As it turned out, he hadn't scored _at all_.

If you didn't count his two medals, that is. Which he very obviously didn't.

"That makes it even worse!" Clint exclaimed when Bucky tried to point that out. "They should've helped but they very much haven't!"

"Well, maybe _some things_ can't be helped," Bucky snarked.

"Oh, fuck you," Clint retorted. "It's your fault too. Where were you these past few days? I needed my wingman, where was he?"

"Nowhere," Bucky said, because he was humiliated enough by the whole experience without having to talk about it. "Besides, I'm here now, ain't I?"

"True," Clint said. Something in his voice made Bucky glance over at him, already feeling dread. "Which is why tonight, things are gonna _change_."

Bucky almost decided there and then not to go to the ceremony after all. But fuck it: he'd earned it. He might even need it, as a way to remember why he'd come here in the first place, with what expectations. Because those had been fulfilled. Sure, he hadn't gotten a medal, he hadn't qualified for any final. But he'd _been there_. He'd competed alongside incredibly talented people, he'd witnessed amazing things. For two short weeks he'd been a fucking Olympian. That was something.

That was enough.

 

-

 

Of course, the second the ceremony was over and everything devolved into more chaotic and cheerful celebrations spilling out the Maracanã stadium and into Rio's night, Clint disappeared.

Bucky tried to find him, but couldn't. Natasha came and went to say hi before she took off with her boxing teammates, so he wasn't with her. Nor was he with the rest of the archery team. And while the stadium wasn't the largest in the world, it was still filled to the brink with _several thousands people_.

He was about to say to hell with Clint—who was probably off finally getting lucky, the asshole—and just head back to his room to finish packing when someone grabbed his elbow. He whirled around, fist raised—he'd heard all about how some athletes had been attacked and robbed—only to come face to face with Steve, who let him go at once and stepped back, hands raised.

"Woah, sorry," he exclaimed as Bucky gasped, " _Fuck_. Don't _do_ that."

"I'm sorry," Steve repeated. "I didn't think, I just, I didn't want—" He sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. "I'm just so glad I caught you."

Bucky's eyebrows darted up. "You are?"

"Yeah," Steve said earnestly. "You vanished after the platform diving event and I don't even have your phone number and—" He huffed. "I've been…looking. Without much success."

He looked down. Bucky stared at him—at the blush climbing up his cheeks, at his nervous hands that didn't seem to know what to do with themselves, at that goddamn team uniform and on his chest—

"You're wearing your medal," he said, quite stupidly.

"Well, yeah. We kind of have to, tonight." Steve paused. "People keep taking pictures."

He didn't seem very happy about it. "You should enjoy your five minutes of fame before you and your sport fall back into complete oblivion," Bucky suggested.

"I'd rather not," Steve retorted. "Especially given that I'm pretty sure most of these people have no idea what discipline I'm in."

Bucky smirked. "Oh, I see. They just want you for the bling."

There was a silence, made even more awkward by the noise and exuberance all around them.

"So where are your teammates?" Bucky asked.

Steve looked grateful and replied at once, "Off with their girlfriends or boyfriends or family."

And Bucky was an idiot, because he couldn't help but fish at bit. "Not you?"

Steve shook his head. "No. My mom couldn't really afford the flight over."

"Yeah, mine either." Although she'd tried. But then his dad had wanted to come too, _and_ his sisters—only by then plane ticket prices had already gone crazy, so that had been that.

"So I was thinking," Steve said slowly, almost tentatively, "maybe we could keep each other company?"

Bucky bit his lips. "What about Sam?"

Steve looked confused. "He and Riley—that's his synchro partner—they already left. Off to a, um." He blushed. "A more private kind of celebration, if you see what I mean."

"I don't—" Bucky started. Steve gave him a look.

Oh.

Ohhh.

Well.

That changed things.

Steve started speaking again, stilted and awkward. "And I was kinda hoping we might—I mean, if you want. That we might get our own. Celebration, I mean. If you want."

Bucky blinked. It took a second for what Steve had just said to register. When it did, he started to smile, quite helplessly. Because, really?

_Really?_

"Well," he drawled, reaching out to run a finger down the ribbon holding Steve's medal, "I can't leave one of our finest gold medalists all on his own for closing night, can I? That wouldn't be very sportsmanlike."

"It really wouldn't be," Steve said. He tried to keep a straight face but couldn't, grin cracking through, happy and, yes, Bucky could see it now: relieved.

His hand slid down to wrap around Steve's as he met his gaze.

"So." He smiled. "Where do you wanna go?"

 

 

**22nd of August - Day +1**

* * *

 

Bucky never found out what Clint had gotten up to during the night of the closing ceremony. All he knew was that 1) Clint did _not_ find anyone to hook up with; 2) it wasn't through lack of trying, given that he partied so late into the night that it became morning; 3) he was atrociously hungover when Bucky came to wake him up around 11 a.m. the next morning to make sure they wouldn't miss their flight in the afternoon.

Incidentally, it meant that Clint wasn't there to see Bucky creep back into his room well after sun up, hair a mess and team uniform more than a little bit creased. No, as far as Clint was aware, Bucky had started the day in his own bed and was now up and about, showered and dressed and reasonably well-rested.

"Unfair," he whined, until Bucky gave in and went to fetch him some coffee.

 

-

 

"So the theory has been disproved."

"What?" Bucky asked, not sure he'd heard right.

They were now on the bus to the airport, right on time—mostly thanks to Bucky packing 90% of Clint's things, if only to make sure nothing would be forgotten.

"I'm saying that you were right," Clint said, loud and unhappy and a little green around the edges. Bucky checked the pocket in the seat in front of him to make sure they had a bag ready. "If the theory was valid then you and I would definitely have gotten some, wouldn't we? Or _I_ would have, at least," he finished in a mumble.

"Right," Bucky said, and remembered the previous night—how Steve had grown all awkward again, almost bashful, when he'd suggested that, well, he didn't want to pressure Bucky, not at all, if Bucky didn't want to then it was fine, but his roommate had already vacated their room to go spend his last night at a hotel with his fiancé and so he was wondering, and Bucky had  taken pity on him and kissed him and said yes before he could work himself up any further; he remembered how once they'd been there they'd had to push both beds together, making such a racket that they'd burst into laughter, tipsy as they'd been, but then laughter had turned into kissing, and even pushed together the beds had been way too narrow, but they'd made it work anyway; he remembered how he'd thought that Clint's theory wasn't 100% bullshit after all, that the condoms in the welcome package _had_ their uses; and he remembered how the next morning they'd done it all over again, and afterwards Steve had kissed him and said, _I want to see you again_ , and Bucky had finally, finally gotten his number, as well as the promise of a date once they'd figured everything out, time and distance and conflicting schedules and all.

He remembered all that, lingering on the best moments, so much so that he almost didn't hear Clint when he asked:

"Wait, why are you smiling? Bucky? Why are you looking so smug?"

Bucky only smiled wider, and didn't reply.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes :
> 
> \- Kim Rhode was an athlete on the shooting team. The 2016 Olympics were her 6th Olympic games, and the 6th time she brought home a medal.
> 
> \- AMU is short for U.S. Army Marksmanship Unit.
> 
> \- "Ginny" refers to Virginia Trasher, who won the gold medal in 10m air rifle. She was born in 1997 and was 19 at the time of the games. Other female winners on the team were Corey Cogdell in trap (born 1986) and Kim Rhode in skeet (born 1979).
> 
> \- I mostly followed the actual results of the US team during the games, except in athletics: the male US team didn't win any medal in hammer and discus throw. I switched those over with the two medal they won in shot-put, and so stole the world record breaking performance of German athlete Christoph Harting for Steve. It's bad, I know—but let's be honest, if they'd had Steve Rogers on that team, they would've won :P
> 
> \- re: wounds through javelin throw, Sharon is referring to an accident that took place in 2007 during the Golden League in Rome, when Finnish athlete Tero Pitkämäki accidentally hit French long-jumper Salim Sdiria in the back. Fortunately, no vitals organs were hurt. In 2012, a German referee wasn't so lucky. I expect javelin throwers always have both of those incidents in mind whenever they're competing.
> 
> \- [layersofsilences](https://layersofsilences.tumblr.com/) demands I add the following comforting thought (I'm mentioning it so you can blame her): that Bucky will probably have another shot at the Olympics in 4 years' time—but he only had one shot at Steve, and this one he didn't miss *wink wink*
> 
> \- [here is the tumblr post](http://princessniitza.tumblr.com/post/170839320581/the-baisodrome-theory-niitza-captain-america) if anyone wants to reblog :) (please do!)


End file.
